


drunk (in you)

by decidingdolan



Series: theopolis (use at your own discretion) [13]
Category: The Amazing Spider-Man (Movies - Webb)
Genre: Celebrity mentions, Film References, Fluff, M/M, Music, Suit Porn, fashion - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-07
Updated: 2014-07-07
Packaged: 2018-02-07 20:59:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1913628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/decidingdolan/pseuds/decidingdolan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Somehow a trip to Fifth Avenue in search of the perfect suit for Peter Parker has Harry Osborn distracted, unraveled. Featuring excessive use of a certain word between the two of them, a classic Cary Grant grey suit, muffled sounds in the back of a limo--tangled limbs and tangled minds, Panerai watches, and a Saint Laurent tie. With a bonus musical number.</p>
            </blockquote>





	drunk (in you)

> _No matter what, nobody can take away the dances you've already had._
> 
> _\- Gabriel Garcia Marquez_
> 
>  

* * *

 

 

"What, no. You can't be—you're seriously not wearing that."

He glanced down at his outfit for tonight's event—a movie premiere red carpet that you'd had invitations to (and who else was going to be your plus one?)—and frowned when he'd met your eyes again, arms swung to his sides, an exaggerated, what-can-I-do shrug.

"It's double breasted. Formal. Like you told me. Nothing wrong with it."

"Double breasted, yes," you were scratching your chin, an arm crossed at your chest, as you stood, surveying him from head to toe, "Otherwise, no. There's everything wrong with it."

Probably about the hundredth time that brunch hour. (Lucky you'd had him come over early. Much later, and your plans would have gone astray.)

"Used to be my Dad's." Another very Peter excuse, followed by an equally sheepish smile, "Was really glad it fitted."

You dropped your arms to your sides, stepped in front of him, a hand fingering his collar, another smoothing down his suit, chest to waist.

"Your dad," you repeated, shaking your head, "Points for the double breasted—it's back in vogue, but the suit has to go."

You tiptoed up, gave him a quick kiss on the lips.

Adorable. Him being all flustered and lost, a lamb waiting for guidance, your favorite man in the City in need of fashion advice and a makeover.

This was going to be fun.

You let go of him, waved a hand over his suit, both the jacket and the trousers.

"The color suits you, grey, I'm okay with that," you started, "But the fit. Fucking terrible. This is why I always go for tailored, _boyfriend_."

Teased him a bit. Used that word on purpose, just to evoke a smile out of him, a curl of the lips, even, to ease him into this, and not let him think you were being too harsh (you were).

He was grinning, hands in his suit's flap pockets, bare feet tapping on the floor.

(Reminded you of tonight's surprise, but not yet.)

"Someone like you should never go for double breasted, is what I'm saying, no offense to Dad—“

"—none taken."

"You're lanky, thin. Your torso gets stretched out when the fit's not perfect, and all they'll see in pictures is a walking beanpole."

He let out couple of laughs at that, body doubling over.

"So what do you suggest?" he asked, when both of you had already known the answer.

You whipped out a credit card from your jacket pocket, and offered your arm to him.

"Shall we?"

 

* * *

 

"Grey. He's got to have a grey suit. That's the basics. Like Cary Grant." you were saying to a group of staff surrounding you at the Tom Ford store’s counter. They'd gotten Peter up on a stall, a staff frantically measuring his dimensions. He'd changed into his usual staple: grey Henley and jeans, a no brainer outfit, and you into black Topshop skinny jeans (the one that showed off your legs) and Zara tee, topped with a John Varvatos blazer.

"Fine friend you've got there, Mr. Osborn," said the store manager (aka your friend and obedient servant), glancing back at Peter then at you, "Could be a model, by the looks of him."

You shrugged, waved a nonchalant hand, "Not my friend," a quizzical look in the manager's eyes, "He's my boyfriend."

You'd said the word with relish, with the sheer, unadulterated joy in the freedom of the ability to use it, so widely, in such carefree ways, under any circumstances, whenever you felt like it.

My boyfriend. Mine. No one else's. Yours to say. Only yours.

Tugged on the Oliver Spencer sunglasses folded at your shirt, and Peter’d emerged from the dressing rooms a minute later.

Had to confess you were holding your breath, but Tom Ford almost never disappointed.

The sight of a pristine white shirt, dark solid tie, and the classic grey (the exact perfect middle shade—not too light and summery or too somber charcoal), a two buttoned jacket and trousers, one jacket buttoned, not two, the way it was supposed to be, and you'd sighed, contented, your fist on the counter loosened.

There's the jacket that hugged, accentuated his shoulders, contoured his frame, its sleeves slimmed down, ending just above the hinges of wrists, boasting a a slim lapel and flap pockets, with a center vent at the back of the jacket, keeping the suit clean and simple, and easily paired with the flat, trimmed trousers that clipped at the tops of his shoes.

He came over, gesturing over his suit, enthusiastic like he was when you both had discovered the coke and the mentos experiment, "Well, what’d you think?"

You wrapped your arms around his waist, pulled him close, "Good enough to be unwrapped."

He chuckled, hand scratching the back of his neck, "I'll...take that as a yes?"

"Definitely," you pressed your lips to his, "Definitely, a pass."

 

* * *

 

"Dark blue, that's the new black."

You were in Versace now, Peter trailing behind you, his new suit safely packed in the trunk of your limo. This was another stop along the way, and you were having too much fun, after seeing his first outfit, to stop indulging yourself.

You'd picked out the suit this time, jacket and trousers, handed his measurements to the staff. Placed the suit and a shirt, both still hanging from racks, on his frame, in front of the mirror.

Dark blue, and a navy shirt. Tailored to fit his frame.

Tall, dashing, a highlight. A stand out.

"Give me one of these, his size."

You'd clicked your fingers, and away went the staff.

It'd take a week, usually, but they always delivered to you within a couple of days.

Benefits of trust fund money, you guessed.

"You like blue," he was hovering in front of you, stating a fact, voice like that of a child pointing out the sky was blue for the tenth time, his eyes peering into the menu of tailored suits, a piece of paper you were engrossed in.

That face was too goofy for you to bear.

You waved the paper in front of his face, chuckling.

"I like you in blue," you told him, hand cupping his cheek, "I like you in blue more."

 

* * *

 

"Mr. Osborn...uh, Mr. Osborn...we're here....sir?

...

Sir?"

_Shit._

Okay, so you were still kneeling down at the floor of the limo, come on your lips, and your immaculately styled hair from hours ago now in chaotic disarray, your shirt slightly (slightly) wrinkled (blaming his over eager hands), your blazer lying on the floor. Jeans tented and tight, cock begging for the attention it so deserved, after the job that your lips had more than fulfilled its duty in.

He was looking no less dazed. Still trying to gather himself back from where your lips had taken him to. Peter's hands had left your hair and were steadying themselves at your shoulders, his lips wet, the skin from his neck to his hairline the oddest pale burgundy shade. Sweat at the skin above his upper lip, his Henley lying on the seat beside him, bare, delectable skin from the neck ending at his waistline, his jeans unzipped and tugged down to his ankles, along with his underwear, his cock a few inches from your lips.

"Pete," you'd climbed on top of him, legs straddling his frame, when the door of the limo slammed closed in front of the Versace store, and the darkened partition filter between the driver and the passenger sides had lifted up, "Pete."

He'd looked down at you, eyes hazy, blinked, "Hey, you."

"Hey, you," you replied, grinning, hand reaching down the front of his jeans, "And there's one other thing I wanted to say hello to—"

Cupped his cock through the denim, and the next thing you knew, he'd had you pressed up against the leather seat of the car, lips locked on yours, hands peeling off your blazer.

Nothing if not a quick response.

You had to give him that.

"Wait," you gasped, hand fisted at the front of his shirt, "Wait."

He paused, watching you through glazed chocolate eyes.

"Let me suck you off," you'd crawled down to the floor, on your knees, unzipped his jeans and tugged them and his underwear to his ankles.

Felt his eyes on you, heavy and wanting, and it was more than a little flattering, really.

"Those suits, your face," you licked your lips, "You'd look so fucking gorgeous when you come."

And you took his cock in your hands, stroking.

He'd blushed, pink blooming, spreading from his cheeks to his neck, a sharp intake of breath the second you'd had your hands on him.

"I want your cock in my mouth," was all you had to say, and he'd nodded, docile and spellbound, in a trancelike state.

He was yours, anyhow. And he'd agreed, when you asked.

Kept your eyes closed, all those nights when he was fucking you (okay. So you might both be celebrating the labelling of boyfriends a little too late. Might.), and you'd never seen his face when he came.

You didn't give blowjobs—they were given to you, when you wanted. His was an exception. His was a special case. His was a cock you wanted christened with your lips, first and foremost.

Boyfriends. He was yours, and you wanted to make him feel it.  
That was how, when the limo had screeched to a stop in front of the Tommy Hilfiger store on Fifth Avenue, you were kneeling down in front of him, chocolate eyes staring down at you, its owner trying to catch his breaths.

"Mr. Osborn?"

_Jesus._

"Give me twenty, Austin," you'd called to the front, knew the Ukrainian would have figured it out, from the moans and discordant, mingled sounds at the back of the limo, what you both were really up to.

He reached out a hand, lifted up your chin, "I'll take care of it—that. There." he smiled, stumbling over his words, finger stroking your cheek, "I'll take care of you."

Cute.

And they told you mixing in best friend and boyfriend was going to be a bad idea.

How wrong.

He did take care of it—that. there. Of you. And under twenty minutes. You were looking about to implode. A switch of places, your jeans and boxers down, his lips and hands working at your cock, your hands mussing up his hair as he did so (it was already a brunette jungle. People wouldn't spot the difference.) some hard sucking, his eyes meeting yours and urging you to let go, and you'd spilled all over, his lips catching you in time, tissues cleaning up the rest.

"God, aren't we a mess," you muttered, laughing, as you tidied yourself up, boxers and jeans back in place, "It's fucking obvious what we've just done."

"Smelling of come?" he added, pulling up his underwear and jeans and zipping himself up, "I blame you."

"Hey!"

He'd slipped on his Henley and handed you your blazer from his place at the floor.

"No more hey's, Mr. Osborn," he said, mock serious, and winked at you.

"Or we'll never get to go in there."

 

* * *

 

You ended up choosing a black Alexander McQueen two piece suit for him, accompanied by the standard white shirt and a grey silk tie.

A black, but you could never have too many blacks, that's a rule in your books.

Took in the light toned suit he liked at Armani, despite it being too informal (and light brown barely making his figure pop), kept the open collar, light blue shirt, and the brown decks, for later use. Light brown tie, that was also a good one.

Dropped into Bergdorf Goodman to buy him couple of essentials: leather loafers, brogues, oxfords, the lot. The must haves. A black, glossy pair of duilio, to pair up with tonight's outfit. Add in a Panerai Luminor watch (an advanced order), some Varvatos perfume, and he was all set.

 

* * *

 

"Har, a little help?"

You poked your head out of your walk-in closet at his voice, your hair sticking out in all directions (a sorry sight to your hairdresser over at John Barrett. Thank God you always had one on speed dial, and Dianna's agreed to come in for you and Peter tonight.), as it always happened when you were picking out a suit to wear.

Making Page Six every day wasn't a breeze, whatever people may thought.

You shook your head, as you walked over, still in your Tom Ford robes for getting ready.

"Your tie, really, Pete?"

A finger scratched his eyebrow. "It's been a while," he admitted, softly.

You helped him tie up the tie, murmuring, "It's a bit like tying your shoelaces, only not quite," under your breath.

He was a great mannequin, standing absolutely still while you worked, smiling his wide, blissful smile.

You tapped his chest when you'd finished, calling after him as you walked away, "See you in an hour. Don’t ask for me. Send for Jimmy if you need something."

Jimmy was your lived-in tailor.

"Meet you at the door?"

He nodded, and you gave him a thumbs up before disappearing behind the closet doors.

 

* * *

 

"Well, what’d you think?"

You asked, as you descended the stairs at the mansion's main hall. He was waiting at the foot of the stairs, by the door.

Judging by his mesmerized eyes, gaping mouth, arms hanging loose at his sides, you'd picked the right suit. (Hadn’t you always?)

"Good enough to be unwrapped," he grinned, offering you his arm, when you'd reached the bottom of the stairs.

His was the black Alexander McQueen, white shirt, grey tie, as picked out earlier today, hair spiked up and properly groomed, watch on his wrist, and duilios on his feet. Yours was a custom dark blue, two piece suit, jacket and trousers, tailored to slim fit by Dior, a Saint Laurent tie of matching color and a sprinkle of white patterned dots, worn over a Dior white shirt, and accessorized with The Tie Bar pocket square. Finished up the outfit with Falke socks, black Tod's loafers, and a RadioMIR 1940 Panerai watch.

"All in good time, _boyfriend_ ," you were whispering in his ear as you both walked out of the mansion, down to the limo, "All in good time."

 

* * *

 

"So who was the girl in the movie again? The one who sang those songs? All the songs?"

His lips were a little loose. He'd had a couple of vodka shots at the theater's bar, post screening. You'd grabbed his hand, and led him out of the bar, up the fire escape stairs.

You'd had some yourself, but you could hold your drink better than him, naturally.

Being a weary, worldly globe trotter did that to you.

"Keira Knightley," you replied, squeezed his hand. Didn't want to lose him in his train of thoughts, "You mean you've never seen her?"

"I don't remember."

You knew him to be the type.

"She was at the red carpet," you elaborated, dragging him up the stairs, "I said hello to her."

"She seemed nice," he muttered, fingers of his free hand knotted in his hair, attempting to recall bits and pieces of information from three hours ago.

"She _is_ nice," you amended, "The last good film she was in, other than this one, because that visually stunning _Anna Karenina_ was a bore, was _Never Let Me Go_ , with that guy from _The Social Netw_ \--"

You were about to add that you'd yet to watch _A Dangerous Method_ , and that you tended to reveal your love of films when you'd had more than one drop of 40% alcohol drinks in your bloodstream (a lone prep school existence was dreadful. Films consoled you.), when you realized you'd both made it to the roof. Pushed the door opened, and you’d jumped in front of him, arms stretched wide.

"Surprise."

The building's rooftop had a mini stage set up, strings of multi-colored lights dangling in the air, from one edge of the roof to the other. The sky was beginning to darken, and the lighting was just right.  
"I hadn't anything else set up," you explained, gesturing at the lights, "Knew this was going to be enough."

He'd leaned in, lips on your forehead, and arms around your waist, just as Adam Levine, guitar sling across his shoulder, and the accompanying band (that wasn't his own), took to the stage.

"Liar," he accused, fingers threading through yours, "You totally planned this."

"Was just calling up a few friends," you clicked a finger, and the band started playing the opening chords to a song from the film.

The Maroon 5 lead singer grabbed the mic and started strumming his guitar, crooning the first lines to the song.

_Please, don't see...just a boy caught up in dreams and fantasies._

Peter twirled you around, his hands still at your waist, yours now wrapped around his neck.

_Please, see me...reaching out for someone I can't see._

Slow dancing. That was strange. That was new.

_Take my hand, let's see where we wake up tomorrow._

He bent down, pressed his forehead against yours.

_Best laid plans sometimes are just a one-night stand._

The glow in his eyes scared you. Almost chased your heart away. You hadn't been under someone's gaze, not in this way, not before.

_I'll be damned. Cupid's demanding back his arrows._

His hands came up, cupped your cheeks.

"Sorry, not the best song to play at something like this," he was muttering, and you'd chuckled in reply.

"It's a good song, though," you said, lips folded up.

"A beautiful song," he added, "Beautiful."

_So let's get drunk...on our tears...and..._

You stayed that way for a while, his hands cupping your cheeks, his eyes locking you in your place. And you didn't want time to continue.

_God, tell us the reason...youth is wasted on the young._  
 _It's hunting season, and the lambs are on the run. Searching for meaning._

His lips grazed yours, swallowed you in, and you'd closed your eyes.

_But are we all lost stars, trying to light...up...the dark?_

He tasted of vodka, fiery intoxication and inviting numbness, and you wanted to get drunk with him, in him.

_Don't you dare let our best memories bring you sorrow._

You were singing along now, when you both paused for air, just in time to catch your favorite lines.

_Yesterday, I saw a lion kiss a deer._

He raised his eyebrow at that, and you shrugged, still smiling. Happiness was felt. Happiness was felt. And no matter how fleeting, you wanted it to last. Because this was the moment when you realized, this was the moment when you knew.

_Turn the page, maybe we'll find a brand new ending._

His lips brushed your nose, and you let out an embarrassing giggle.

_Where we're dancing...in...our tears...and..._

He led you across the floor, closer to the stage, and Adam Levine tipped his head in your direction.

_And I thought I saw you out there crying._

Levine's falsetto here was lovely, a gem.

_And I thought I heard you call my name._

Peter was trying to sing along at this line, sounding more like humming mixed in with mumbling, and you couldn't stop smiling.

_And I thought I heard you out there crying._  
 _Oh…_

You were resting your head on his shoulder when the chorus rolled along for the final time.

He'd stood, swaying slightly to the rhythm, and you'd followed.

Lost stars. Maybe. The two of you. But lost stars that stuck together, a couple, (You liked that word. A couple. That signifying tie. A relationship. Something to hold on to.) were better than lone stars, singular and isolated, not floating in space, but falling into the void.

Lost stars. If you were lost, if he was lost, you'd found each other.

Wasted this youthful period. Maybe. But you'd called it living life to the fullest, and he'd been an inherent part of yours—you'd known that since you were seven, and he was seven and a half.

Lost stars. If you were lost, if he was lost, if the sky had indeed turned dark, you'd have gotten lost together.

And that's all that mattered. That's all that a lost star like you needed to know.

**Author's Note:**

> Fic for Marvel Daily on Twitter. Theme/Topic was: suit.
> 
> Thank you so much for stopping by, reading, leaving kudos! Y'all mean the world to me. Comments/Criticisms greatly appreciated! :)
> 
> With love and ristretto,
> 
> x


End file.
